


Leap Forward

by Arualiaa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Cute Children, Family, Fear of Death, Fluff, Friendship, Healthy Divorce, Kidfic, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Redemption, Romance, Second Chances, Voldemort learns what family means, not mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4674053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arualiaa/pseuds/Arualiaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Voldemort, a quickly rising figure in the Dark sect, decides to travel in time in order to see how his efforts will flourish in the future. What he finds instead is… nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. King's Cross

Harry stood next to his friends at a very familiar place, staring at an equally familiar train. Fond memories swirled in his mind and danced before his eyes: finally escaping from the Dursleys after long, long summers, going back to his only home. Meeting Ron and Hermione again, often after scarce correspondence.

There were some differences, however, starting with the additions to the people who surrounded him. Hermione wasn’t already dressed in her school robes reading a book, but conversing with Andromeda Tonks, for one, and Ron wasn’t excitedly sharing sweets with him, but grinning madly at three of his nephews, while his eldest niece Victoire rolled her eyes at the ‘motivational speech’ her cousins and sister were receiving. It was supposed to ‘make sure they all landed in Gryffindor right away’.

Harry sighed fondly at the Weasley clan’s antics, but he also had speeches to deliver. Namely, to one Edward ‘Ted’ Lupin right in front of him, clasping a smaller figure’s shoulders.

“Teddy, remember what I said,” he began. “Make sure he doesn't get in trouble, alright?”

“Oh come on, dad! I _won't_!” James protested petulantly, crossing his arms. “I’m older now, I’ll get in _Hogwarts_. Can't you trust me for once?”

“It’s because you're about to get in Hogwarts that I’m not trusting you, James,” The Deputy Head Auror said, exasperation in his voice. “Stuff from Uncle George’s shop is forbidden, no sneaking out after curfew, no badmouthing Snape if you stumble upon his portrait-“

“Uncle Harry,” his teenaged godson interrupted with a smile. His hair was a more natural shade for once, a dark blond, but his eyes were a flashy orange. “Don't worry so much. Besides, a little birdie has told me that you used to get in _lots_ of trouble during your Hogwarts years.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Oi, stop conspiring against me, you two,” Harry grumbled, a flush creeping up his neck. “That is not the point. You really don't want to face Headmistress McGonagall’s wrath, James. She’s got _claws_.”

Teddy choked in sudden laughter, while the eleven year old looked at them in confusion. He’d get the joke in a few days’ time, Harry thought.

“Dad, dad!” A higher voice called him, and the man who used to be the Boy-Who-Lived turned around to see long, ginger hair and three children. “Mum bought muggle soda for Hugo, Rose and I. Do you want some?”

Harry chuckled, accepting a red can from his middle son and taking a sip. “She did?” The drink returned to young fingers, and his niece Rose nodded.

“Yes, but I had to help. Aunt Ginny almost hexed the vending machine open when she thought it kept her change,” she explained, acting like a cultural bridge like her mother and Harry himself often found themselves doing in their youth.

“It’s not my fault they don't come with instructions,” his ex-wife jokingly complained, arms crossed in a grumpy gesture so similar to her son’s.

The following minutes were spent with James complaining about not getting his own can of Coca-Cola, and his brother shooting back that he got to attend Hogwarts instead. Harry shook his head. “Did your mum send a _Patronus_ yet?”

“Yes. Lily’s still got a fever. …you don't mind if she stays at the Burrow for a few more days, do you? I _told_ her that too much ice cream would give her a cold, I should have placed a locking charm in the freezer-“

“Gin, it’s okay, really,” Harry assured her. “She loves it in there, and Albus and I can wait a few days, can't we?”

Lots of things could have gone wrong when Harry and Ginny got divorced, all things considered. They could have ended up hating each other, hurting their children’s feelings, fighting endlessly over custody or what belonged to whom. Against all odds, they stayed in more than good terms and raised their children showing a united front. Harry liked to think that he’d lost a wife, but got regained a close friend.

Some people asked them why they didn't remarry already, but things were never that simple. Sometimes, relationships like theirs, since Hogwarts, worked. Sometimes they didn't, and that was okay.

“Have you talked to your cousin yet?” Ginny’s voice brought him out of his thoughts. Harry sighed.

“No, not yet. I think I will go for a visit sometime soon, but not here. Not _now_.” It had been a shock to find one Dudley Dursley at platform 9¾ with his wife and eldest daughter, one he wasn’t ready to tackle just yet. Harry as all about family, but when it came to the Dursleys, he was fairly reluctant to approach them outside of typical, obligatory holiday meetings.

Ginny looked like she was about to say something, but a loud voice called for all students to get on the train. Both parents hugged James tightly in farewell, and he had the faintest dusting of pink on his cheeks at the public display of parental affection.

The last thing Teddy Lupin did before closing his train compartment window was to offer them a mock-salute and a grin.

 

\-----

 

Harry, Ginny and Albus were taking a walk around Godric’s Hollow. The two adults were discussing the unexpected newcomer at King’s Cross, while their middle son busied himself with his pet ferret, trunk with his belongings already at Harry’s house.

When little Albus had said the previous year that he wanted a ferret, Harry had chortled into his fist, while Ron guffawed loudly and then suggested they get one and name it ‘Malfoy’. That afternoon had been filled with Ginny and the ‘Golden Trio’ reminiscing funny stories of their time at Hogwarts, to five very young people’s delight and attentiveness.

Ultimately, the poor animal hadn't been named after a pureblood family name, but ‘Pluizig’. Another trait of Ginny’s that had passed over to their children was her knack for terrible names, it seemed. ‘I’ll remind you that Dumbledore’s Army was my idea and everyone seemed okay with that name!’ she defended, indignant, whenever Harry brought it up.

"Are you sure you’re alright with this?” Ginny asked, placing a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “We both know how the Dursleys affected you. We have been visiting for the kids’ sake, but you don't have to talk to that git if you don't want to.”

“Gin… I have to. He’s… he’s my cousin, and I still remember how my uncle and aunt reacted when they got my Hogwarts letter. He might have managed a quick trip to Diagon, but…” Harry was rambling at this point, and he messed with his fringe to cover his scar, a nervous habit he hadn't grown out of. “Look. I can tell he loves that child to death, but there’s just so much he doesn't know. He doesn't know that accidental magic will most likely have stopped by the first Christmas break but can come back if she’s angry, he doesn't know about magical growth spurts, anything about the Ministry… he will not like it, _I_ will not like it, but there’s stuff he needs to understand if we want my niece to be happy.”

“I know that, Harry. I just don't like the idea of you having a friendly chat with him, who was raised as a bigot, on how to deal with his magical daughter.” The once Potter shook her head, lips pressed into a thin line.

“To be honest? I’m surprised my mum’s magical genes survived Uncle Vernon’s DNA,” Harry attempted to joke, which earned him a light chuckle. “I’ll be alright. He’s behaved okay so far since the… since the war, and… Besides. D’you know who else was raised as a bigot? Malfoy. And he turned out to be decent at the end, didn't he?”

“…well, I still think he’s a prat. But he’s a tolerable prat,” Ginny snorted. “Don't tell Ron I said that, though – he’d never let me live it down.”

Harry smirked at the remark, relaxing a little. His aunt, uncle and cousin were still a somewhat awkward subject for him, but the knowledge that now he had a tightly knit group of friends, other blood relatives, and his children to brighten up his days, made any problems easier to deal with.

“Dad!” Ah. Speaking of his children, Al had been walking ahead, with his ferret draped over his left shoulder and clutching on to his neck and shirt for dear life. He was near the village’s small cemetery, and Harry frowned at the route they’d unintentionally taken in their stroll. As they walked closer, the nine year old’s voice got significantly quiet. “Dad, there’s… someone crying in front of _that man_ ’s headstone.”

Harry didn't need to be given a name or a title to know who the man in question was. Albus didn't know the details, only that there was an evil Dark Lord whom his dad defeated during war, and he was the reason why he had two grandparents instead of four, everyone but especially his dad, uncle George and grandma Molly got that haunted look in their eyes sometimes, and there was a grave in the cemetery that no one brought flowers to and was separated from the rest.

Lord Voldemort was buried quietly. Ironically enough, it was members of the Light who organised it – the Dark had lost, and all families that were loyal to the late Dark Lord were busy trying to keep their close relatives, or themselves, out of Azkaban for war crimes. They could not leave the serpentine man’s body there to rot, in the Great Hall of Hogwarts: it was simply not humane, no matter who he had once been and what he had done.

It was decided that he’d be buried at Godric’s Hollow, place of his first downfall, and where the war memorials were. There was something poetic about it, but it was lost on the raw sobriety of the event. People were numb, grieving their dead and recovering both physically and mentally, and they were going to place the man who started it all six feet underground. It gave some a sense of closure, but others felt that he did not deserve this dignity. There was no funeral, or at least a proper one: just a small gathering of people with their chests hollowed out by battle, watching as a modest wooden coffin was lowered to the ground and their nightmare ended for good.

Who could possibly be mourning this man, enough to shed tears before his grave? Harry frowned, quickening his steps. A former Death Eater, perhaps? Two of the lesser ones had recently ended their time in Azkaban, he knew.

His position as Deputy Head Auror would mean nothing if this was, in fact, a criminal who had already paid for their actions. Despite this, he felt it was his duty to at least see who this person was: curiosity aside, it was always a wise move to keep an eye on possible future trouble.

The figure in front of Lord Voldemort’s headstone was tall, and wore outer wizarding robes, although Harry could make out the hem of a pair of trousers where the garment ended. They were giving him their back, but it was obvious that this person (a man, most likely, judging by the broad shoulders and the style of his robes) was barely holding it together. His stance was hunched, gripping his knee with one hand and seemingly, his chest with the other. He appeared to be hyperventilating by the rising and falling of his shoulders, on the verge of a panic attack, and at that moment Harry did not care who this man might be, or why he was bordering hysteria while standing on the mortal remains of his once arch-nemesis.

He only saw a person in a vulnerable position. His instincts (or perhaps the hero complex some accused him of having) screamed at him to do something about it.

Harry entered the cemetery quietly, Ginny and Albus following him. The mystery man was mere metres away from them, and something felt off. He looked at his ex-wife for confirmation, and her frown spoke louder than words. There was something familiar about him-

His legs wobbled, his head lolled back, and Harry _ran_. He sprinted towards the stranger and grabbed him by the armpits before he could hit the ground, or worse, break his neck against another headstone.

Just like that, the once known as Boy-Who-Lived found himself with an armful of a very unconscious man.

A very unconscious man with familiar raven hair so similar to his own, familiar nose, familiar jaw, familiar eyes whose colour Harry knew despite them being closed, familiar pale, _pale_ skin and hollow cheeks

and

What was one supposed to do with an unconscious young Voldemort slack in one’s arms?

“…Gin. Gin, please tell me I’m not going mad.”

The redhead had gone very still, frozen like a statue in a way he hadn't seen her since she was a little girl. She gripped their son’s hand protectively, and her freckled face was pale. “We must both be barking mad, because… because I recognize him too. _H-how?_ He was supposed to be-“

“I know,” Harry whispered, trying to calm down. “I know, maybe- maybe time travel, or- please, _please_ don't let it be necromancy, that-“

“Maybe it's not him, maybe- no, Polyjuice doesn't work with material from a dead person,” she was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to pace around. “Harry, what do we _do_ now? Call the old members of the Order and the DA?”

Ginny was uncharacteristically nervous, which was understandable, since they were in presence of the man who had possessed her for almost a year, _and_ he was looking the part. At least he resembled his teenager self far more than his serpentine construct could ever hope to, despite him looking like he was in his late twenties at the very least.

(It was unsettling to see her like this. She usually was so sure of herself, stomping her way into the unknown with her contagious energy.)

Harry took a deep breath. "I'll bring him home, ask a few questions, and then I’ll send a Patronus to the others.” At his ex-wife’s horrified look, he sighed. “You _know_ I can create wards that would put the Auror Interrogation Room’s to shame. It will be fine.”

"I'm sure _he_ could escape from blo- from Azkaban if he wanted to,” Ginny pointed out, getting a hold of her language in time.

“Mum? What is going on, who is this fellow?”

Harry froze, having forgotten, unlike his ex-wife, that young Albus was still there. There was something of far more importance that needed to be taken care of before anything else. “I’m sorry, Al. You will need to go with mum somewhere else, alright? This is… someone from my work.” Well, that _wasn’t_ a lie. His job technically consisted on imprisoning people like the man slack on his arms.

“One of the bad guys?” He asked, with a hint of the same innocence he displayed when he played ‘Aurors and Dark Lords’ with his brother a few years back.

"…kind of.” He looked at his worried friend, begging for her to oblige with his eyes. “Gin, please. I can handle this.”

“Now is not the best of times to pull the puppy eyes card on me, Harry,” she grumbled with far less seriousness than she intended, minutely distracted from the tension in the air. “…alright, but I will be coming back. I’m not leaving you alone with _him_ of all people.”

Harry pulled out his wand and muttered “ _Incarcerous_ ” at the limp form of Tom Riddle, as Ginny side-disapparated their son.

It was only eleven in the morning, and he had never asked for any of this.

 

\-----

 

If there was one thing Lord Voldemort liked, it was to see his plans fulfilled. He would often obsess over his goals, taking notice of all the things that could go wrong, and ramifications his possible course of action could have. Everything he did was carefully thought out.

… _usually_. But his temper could be hardly considered a weakness, could it? No, everything crumbled under his power, under his crimson glare, whenever anyone was foolish enough to think they could anger Lord Voldemort and walk away unscathed.

Regardless, the Dark Lord liked to follow through his plans, and most importantly, get feedback on their progress. Confirmation was everything to him.

(He'd had enough of uncertainty in his life. In his childhood, he didn't even know if he’d eat that day. He didn't know if he was worthy if he didn't say it himself. Yes, confirmation, validation, it was _everything_.)

(Now he was _unstoppable_. That scrawny orphan was gone. He’d made sure of it.)

Sometimes, he pondered on his choices. He knew that his course of action would take him to greatness – he was already beginning to taste it, sweet ecstasy in his tongue, power so intoxicating it would be _so easy_ to get lost in it – but he wanted to be sure of it. Would his followers, renamed now as Death Eaters, remain faithful? Would he reach his goal of creating six horcruxes, thus having his soul split in the magical number of seven?

The truth was, he couldn't possibly know. Unless he was willing to push the limits of magic, of course.

And Lord Voldemort was no ordinary wizard. He would push and push magic until it broke, and even afterwards. And then he’d reinvent it again.

So, time magic it was. Relatively recent discovery, but nothing he couldn't develop to suit his purposes. He’d put his genius to use once again, and travel to the future to check his progress.

By the time he was in his eighties, he would have surely risen his own empire, right? It was only fitting that he got to witness it personally before he started to build it from its foundations.

 

\-----

 

The ritual he devised was meant to send him in the general vicinity of his future self. It would give him the opportunity to see himself, while at the same time giving him ample space to hide or run away in case there was risk of a paradox occurring.

That was why it threw him off to appear in a cemetery. Was his older self nearby, mourning someone? Voldemort had promised himself that he would not get attached to anyone, because he knew he could not afford such weakness. Perhaps one of his followers was holding a funeral-

He was _alone_ there _._

A rising suspicion made him walk around cautiously, as he assessed his surroundings. The cemetery and its whereabouts were familiar. …yes, he clearly remembered being here before, with Abraxas Malfoy and Edmund Mulciber, to initiate first contact with a vampire clan in neutral territory. Godric’s Hollow, his eidetic memory provided. A small mixed village, with muggles and magical folk coexisting peacefully. Of course, the balance was maintained by a strict policy of keeping magic either indoors or as inconspicuous as possible, and lots of muggle-repelling charms in problematic areas.

The headstones around him had the kind of inscriptions one would expect. ‘In loving memory’, ‘Rest in peace’, ‘An angel returned to Heaven’, ‘A kind mother until the end’. There were others, with the faint shimmer of anti-muggle glamours, that read something significantly more related to the magical world.

‘Died a hero against evil’

‘In the arms of mother Hecate’

‘Hero of the two wars against HWMNBN’

‘Constant vigilance, and wand at the ready’

There had been two wars, and Voldemort doubted the one against Gellert Grindelwald counted. The former Dark Lord was imprisoned with no chance of escape, and the tiny fragments of history he got from the rows of graves spoke of ‘the two wars’. They were bound to be connected in some way, right? What did ‘HWMNBN’ stand for?

Maybe he’d been the one to start them. He _had_ been planning to start a guerrilla movement with his followers for quite some time, so the idea wasn't completely foreign.

(But something felt off. A gut feeling he couldn't possibly ignore.)

Voldemort noticed a grave far from the rest. In some cemeteries, he knew, people who didn't share the territory’s religion were buried aside to respect their beliefs – or as an act of mockery, in some cases.

This was also done to the worst kind of criminals. That practice had become less common, though.

(He didn't want to think about it.)

He walked towards it, curiosity piqued.

(He’d never liked cemeteries.)

His surroundings were unnaturally still, and the late summer breeze did nothing to soothe the chill in his bones. A lump formed in his throat, leaving him breathless like he’d taken a punch to the stomach.

**Thomas Marvolo Riddle**

**1926-1998**

No epitaph. No flowers. The stone was more damaged and eroded than the other, older ones. The ones that were even decades older than this one were at least clean and polished. The grass around the one before him looked unkempt.

It was clear no one tended to this grave. No one cared.

He was dead. He was deaddeaddeaddeaddead and no one _cared_

his horcruxes gone diaryringcuplocket they were supposed to be _safe_ he was supposed to make _more_ how did this even happen he had the diadem already-

(He wasn't aware of the sting in his eyes until tears were rolling down his cheeks. It was the first time he’d cried in more than a decade, and he still couldn't breathe.)

Breathe. It was easy. **_Breathe_**. But his _corpse_ lay rotting underground and he wanted to _throw up_

and close his eyes

and stopthinkingstopfeelingthiscrippling _panic_ -

(It was the year 2015. Just a skeleton. Seventeen years since his… his…)

Faint footsteps. (He paid no mind, because nothing mattered except the fact that he couldn't breathe and he was _dead_ and the heart he prided himself in ignoring threatened to explode and fly off his mouth and why could he not _breathe_ -)

Everything went black.


	2. Auror Potter's interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort is interrogated, but he ends up doing most of the questioning instead.
> 
> And he gets answers he didn't want to hear.

When Voldemort woke up, he did so slowly. His eyes fluttered open, and later on he would curse his reflexes for not being more alert.

He couldn't really help feeling drained after an anxiety attack of those proportions, but he was not a man to indulge in what he considered to be a weakness of his mind. Thus, he did his best to try and not acknowledge the exhaustion lingering in his muscles.

The Dark Lord was bound with thick ropes, and wandless. His legs stuck together and his wrists tied at his back: it was clear that he was being held prisoner.

That did not explain the paradoxically _soft_ bed he was laying on, or the fact that his outer robes (cleverly chosen in order to hide his no doubt outdated clothes underneath) were gone, and there was a pillow positioned strategically under his head to make him feel slightly more comfortable despite the awkward position he was stuck in.

With the bubbling hysteria gone from his head, he could think more clearly. He was trapped in the future at a stranger’s possibly nonexistent mercy. The entire trip was useless, seeing as there was no Empire to visit, and he was-

He didn't want to finish that thought, lest his deep-running instincts get the best of him again.

The only door in the room opened, revealing a man with bright green eyes, messy hair, and round glasses. His frame was thin and perhaps a little shorter than average, but the way he moved and his clothes fit him suggested he was at least moderately built.

He was holding a glass of water. “Feeling better?” He asked, his voice deceptively kind. His eyes and stance, however, showed how _tense_ he truly was. Battle-ready, as if he was expecting a lethal curse coming from anywhere. It was truly baffling.

“I would feel excellent if my limbs weren't tied up,” he retorted mildly. It would not do to taunt a potential enemy too much.

“Safety measures,” was the light reply. When Voldemort did not accept the water, the man rolled his eyes and took out his wand. He tensed up, but the stranger pointed it upwards. “ _I hereby swear on my magic and my life that this glass only contains water. Water is not slang for any other substance than H2O, and it contains just that._ ”

Even as magic confirmed his words as the truth, the Dark Lord refused to take a sip. “Suit yourself,” the man said with a shrug. “I’d take it if I were you, there’s no need to be so distrustful.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What am I doing here?”

“Indeed. _What_ are you doing here? That’s what I’d like to find out,” the stranger replied airily, but his eyes meant business.

“I doubt I entered this warded bunker of a room all on my own, seeing as I’m heavily restricted.”

"You know exactly what I mean, Tom Riddle.”

He tensed up, but forced his expression to remain neutral. How could anyone recognize him? Had he not succeeded in modifying his appearance in the future? Furthermore, how could anyone seriously consider that he was-

“That is not my name.”

“Oh,” the other muttered, blinking with such innocence he almost believed the man had bought it. Maybe it would be his lucky day, the stranger would apologize for what no doubt had to be a mistake, and let him go. “Would you prefer if I addressed you as _Your Lordship_?” He almost ended with a sneer, as if he thought the title to be something disgraceful.

Voldemort was already pale due to his horcruxes’ effects, but all blood drained out of his face. This person knew too much, that was clear. “Who _are_ you?” He asked, this time more carefully. He eyed the other man, contemplating if he should be considered a serious threat.

“Harry Potter, Deputy Head Auror. And let me tell you who you are. Your name is Tom Marvolo Riddle, but you call yourself Lord Voldemort. Now, I will ask again. What are you doing here, and _how_ are you here?” The man, now identified as Auror Harry Potter, paused for a beat. “I’ve got Veritaserum, and I _know_ you, Riddle. I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying.”

"That would be none of your business, Mr. Potter,” Voldemort said, trying to keep his composure. The stiff wording gave him away, and he hated that.

“I will tell you what I think,” Potter said, walking calmly around the room. “I think you came from the past. I think this was either an accident or what you were planning went wrong. I think you’re terrified by what you saw at that cemetery, and I think you have at least two horcruxes, but no more than five by this point. And most importantly: you don't know who you’re speaking to.” His smile was smug, but hesitant. Almost as if confidence and being sure of one’s words felt foreign to him.

Maybe that could be exploited later, Voldemort thought.

“Since you so insist on telling me things, why don't you tell me this? Does your rank allow you to retain people without an official reason, _Auror Potter_?” He chose to not mention how uncomfortably close to the truth his hypotheses were.

“Of course not. I’ve kidnapped you.”

It was that simple. One would think that the Deputy Head Auror would be less nonchalant about breaking the law.

“Lovely.” His eye twitched, the only way to tell he was angry.

(His eyes were tinted permanently crimson, by now. That had been the effect of his third horcrux, after his first one made them flash in that colour whenever his temper rose.)

“And who exactly are you, Harry Potter, Deputy Head Auror?” He drawled, gaze fixed on that Killing Curse green. Who was this person who knew so much about him, and kidnapped him only to treat him almost as if he were an old acquaintance?

"That would be none of your business, Mr. Riddle,” he parroted his own words back with a grin, even having the nerve to try and imitate his voice and mannerisms. Voldemort gritted his teeth.

A knock at the door interrupted his reaction. Potter opened the door, allowing a red-haired woman into the wards. She reminded him a little of Augustus Prewett.

“I heard you. You’re getting better at mimicking people,” she said. It was obvious she was tense, and not as good at hiding it as Potter. “Albus is with my parents. Is _he_ cooperating?”

The auror slipped a hand under his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “As cooperative as Lord _bloody_ Voldemort could ever be,” he muttered, but a useful ability the Dark Lord had learnt over time was to read lips at a distance.

“Albus? Did the old man orchestrate this?” A tidal wave of rage threatened to flood out of his mouth. Of course Dumbledore would be behind a stunt like this one. The Headmaster was remarkably disdainful of rules when it came to his _precious_ ‘greater good’.

(It was ironic how another man operating on the same premise ended up locked inside his own prison.)

“Not _that_ Albus,” the woman replied, her expression sober. She thought him a threat, but there was curiosity in her eyes. “You looked more composed in the diary.”

How many people knew about his horcruxes?! The diary was safe with Abraxas Malfoy, who had sworn to protect it with his life. The cup was in Robert Lestrange’s Gringotts vault, heavily spelled with curses. The ring and the locket were hidden away.

“He wasn't recovering from a major freak out in that diary, Gin. People don't look so composed after this kind of thing, Voldemort or no Voldemort.”

“Playing Devil’s attorney, now? Only you, Harry.”

The absurdity of the situation made him tune out the words, except the question that repeated itself in his mind. It was his maximum priority, above even acknowledging that potential enemies were so casually talking about his bout of weakness.

“Who destroyed my horcruxes?”

The conversation halted. Potter and the redhead, ‘Gin’, looked at each other. “…should we tell him?”

“If you’re thinking about time paradoxes, they will happen anyway. I’m not planning to let him go anytime soon to do everything he did,” the auror replied, and the woman shook her head.

“No, I’m just saying he won't be all that happy about it,” she said, some amusement brightening her eyes. Voldemort narrowed his own.

“…you’re right, and that’s exactly _why_ we’re going to tell him. You don't get to see faces so priceless every day.”

Now that he had the confirmation that he was being mocked, he thrust his bound body upwards, in a show of making it look like he was not helpless. “ _Enough_. Who did it?” He nearly hissed.

Potter shrugged with an infuriating nonchalance. “It was teamwork, really. I took care of the diary, two of my friends destroyed the locket and the cup, Dumbledore destroyed the ring, a friend killed another…” He drawled. “And here comes the funny part: one of your _followers_ destroyed Ravenclaw’s tiara trying to kill me with friendyfire, and got himself killed in the process. Not so funny, that last part, but… did you turn it into a horcrux already? The tiara, I mean.”

Voldemort was fairly sure his lungs had stopped working. It wasn't a bluff: this Harry Potter really knew of all his horcruxes, and one even _he_ didn't know yet. He found himself shaking his head, unable to lie in his shock.

(A tiny fragment of his mind vaguely registered that he’d called it a _tiara_. Such ignorance.)

Dread froze his insides and his throat was dry. A glass was offered to him again. “Drink... for Godric’s sake, you really can't stand the thought of death, can you? I mean it, _drink_.”

The redhead was rubbing her eyes. “This is deeply disturbing. You, of all people, comforting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

The Dark Lord, for some reason, took the firm advice this time. The water tasted of nothing, which meant it could only contain either Veritaserum or regular, flavourless poisons.

The fact that he was too out of it to care scared him profoundly.

“The more you live the more you see, Ginny.” Potter was grinning at her direction. “There, there. Better?”

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Is that how people know me?” It would have been flattering, in another occasion perhaps, to know that the wizarding world feared him enough to not utter his chosen title. It destroyed the purpose of a new name, but the feeling of power was nice. …wasn’t that what he’d read before? HWMNBN… yes, he remembered it clearly, despite it being a mouthful. He’d ponder on it later.

“Yeah. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You-Know-Who… it was a pain to get anyone to actually _tell_ me who they were talking about when I entered the wizarding world,” the auror huffed. “I kind of started the trend of calling you Snakeface. …don't look at me like that! If you’d seen yourself twenty years ago you would understand.”

Voldemort huffed, then chose to ignore the obvious taunt in favour of asking about something of greater outrage. "…who was the fool who destroyed the diadem?”

“Crabbe. You can't kill him, he's already dead and _you_ are still tied up.”

“Corveus Crabbe? That incompetent excuse of a-!”

“Not him. His grandson, probably,” the woman interrupted. Voldemort did not appreciate that, but his exhaustion only let him glare at her with all the intensity he could muster. To his vindictive satisfaction, she flinched ever-so-slightly.

“The horcrux you mentioned. Why say ‘kill’ and not ‘destroy’? You did it deliberately.”

"Yes, I did.”

He waited for elaboration, but there was none.

The _nerve_!

“Potter…” He growled.

“Riddle.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Voldemort, then.”

“ _Lord_.”

“There is no need to call me a Lord, ‘Potter’ will do just fine.”

A frustrated and quite undignified groan escaped his throat. His face burned in rage, and he was sure that if he’d had his wand at the moment, he would have the man writhing on the floor within seconds – energy reserves be damned.

…maybe he didn't need a wand to pull the information out of him. Voldemort was aware of the weight of the wards against his magical core, but the mind arts did not require magic in the conventional sense. He locked eyes with Potter.

_Who would think I’d be pulling this joke Snape’sfacepricelesscan’tpasstheopportunity on **Voldemort**? Malfoy would either scream at me or give me a medal- he was **terrified** war torture deflectedDeathEater_

_Can't tell him now – Merlin knows it took me years to figure out all of his bullshit- keptin the dark I'm about to **die** bet he wouldn't stand seven years of dangerdeathwar **notSiriuswhyme** darknessgreengreen **GREEN** death without having a **clue** twinklygazehe’shidingsomethingjust bloodytellme_

_What is he- eyes like Dumbledore scanning unblinking oh **hell no** -_

His smile turned grim, and his stance sobered as a cloudy haze covered his mind. “If you read my surface thoughts again, I will find myself thinking about things you don't want to know. And trust me, you really _don't_ want to see what I’ve seen,” he threatened.

Was he talking about the war? He’d seen war. Was he talking about torture, destruction? He’d caused both.

…his own lifeless body?

‘Ginny’ pointed her wand at him, the very image of Gryffindor brashness and impulsivity. Potter placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. He didn't see anything.”

“Harry…”

“I know, I know! What’d you say to dropping the bomb right now?”

Just like that, he had returned to his mild, easy-going attitude. This man was truly impossible to understand.

“Only if you're sure about the wards. He might try something fishy.”

The auror smiled, then. “You created two living horcruxes. One of them was killed, as I said, and the other and seventh horcrux…”

The dramatic pause was unnecessary, but Potter indulged in it anyway. “We tricked you into murdering him. And then you died in the final battle because someone redirected your own Killing Curse towards your direction. So technically, you killed yourself.”

Voldemort stared at the man standing next to the bed, vacantly. He’d created seven horcruxes, not six. He’d split his soul eight times, _too many_ times-

He’d destroyed part of his own soul. The Killing Curse that hit him was _his_. How had he been played so thoroughly? He was shaking, his eyes were open wide, and

 _a warm hand on his shoulder_ , grounding him to reality.

"Wow, this... this is _awkward_. It felt more righteous to make you freak out when you were… you older self, you know? But I suppose that’s a low blow now, even for revenge…” He looked up, gaze focusing on Potter, to see him sporting an unreadable expression. “So, for what it’s worth… sorry about that, I guess.”

The woman looked at him like she disagreed, shaking her head slowly, but she reluctantly kept herself from saying anything. The glass was brought to his lips again, and he took another tentative sip, focusing on the cool water going down his throat. Voldemort could feel himself calming further than he’d ever thought himself capable of.

Perhaps exhaustion had something to do with it. He frowned. “You’re odd, Harry Potter.”

“Tell me about it,” sighed the redhead. There was fondness in her words. Maybe they were a couple.

“Alright, it’s time to call the others, I think. Not the DA, though. I’ll call Ron and Hermione first…” The redhead nodded, and Potter pulled out his wand, to Voldemort’s surprise. “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

What was he doing? Two impressively huge stags trotted around the room, chasing each other, as the auror whispered to his wand. “Come to my place, it’s urgent. You’ll never believe _Who_ it is about, you better see for yourselves. Yes, that pun was intentional. …be quick, please.” And then, the two patroni trotted away.

“Why did you send two?”

“I think ‘Mione said she had to go to the Ministry, and I doubt Ron would want to leave everyone just yet.”

Voldemort was flabbergasted. “What did you exactly do?”

“Patronus messaging,” he explained. “Don't look so shocked, I wouldn't expect you to know about it.”

He'd never been able to produce a Patronus, and Potter knew it. _How_ did he know? Past the haze of exhaustion, he could feel fury pulsing through his veins. He schooled his expression. “ _What are you implying_?” His voice could freeze Hell over.

“…you wouldn't know about it, because Albus Dumbledore – your enemy, on top of that – invented it in the _seventies_.” Potter’s brow was raised, and he stared in contemplation. “What did you think I meant?”

 _…oh_.

A shamefully noticeable flush that had little to do with anger spread through his cheeks. “…nothing. Forget about it,” he bit out.

“Now, _that_ is something I thought I’d never see,” the woman muttered.

"And who might you be, in any case?”

Voldemort was pretty sure that the woman’s little flourish and sober expression were meant to be mocking. “Ginevra Weasley, reporter of The Prophet, almost a corpse thanks to your affable diary horcrux whom I was ‘pen-pals’ with twenty years ago…” She trailed off, then jabbed her thumb in Potter’s direction. “And also his ex-wife. Not at all pleased to meet you, Lord You-Know-Who-You-Are.”

He blinked once. Twice. …that had been a strong reaction, even without mentioning his name. If she’d had a run-in with one of his horcruxes it explained her behaviour a little, however. She most likely thought she could get away with her fierceness after having survived him once already.

(Arrogance. He was not an old hypogriff pathetically struggling to learn new tricks. He was deadly, he was the Dark Lord, he was-)

A loud noise from the other side of the house alerted both Weasley and Potter. “…the Floo. That’s them. …no, I’ll watch him,” she said, apparently reading something off Potter’s face she didn’t like. “Really. Go get them, I can handle this.”

“Fine… I’ll go. Just be careful,” the auror said, before leaving the room, and most likely, the wards.

This left him with the woman, who was staring him down with a determined expression and a stiff stance. “I don't know what you’re doing here, and I don't care about who you will become. If you try to hurt my family, I will kill you and personally make sure that you _stay dead_. Is that clear?”

Voldemort felt his stomach tensing, but he wasn’t sure if it was with fear or with anger. ( _Outrage_. Who did she think she was?)  He let out a long, strained sigh, trying to force his usual cool demeanor to come back.

These people clearly expected him to snap at any moment. He would need to look calm if he wanted to get out of this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, let me explain this a bit, because I'm realizing that it might be confusing. Surely the Deputy Head Auror would know better than to let so much information slip and get this situation so out of control, right? But that's the thing, though: Harry isn't really interrogating Voldemort, no matter what our resident Dark Lord thinks. He has pretty good guesses on anything Voldemort would ever willingly tell him. In truth, he's telling him what the deal is: (with some intimidation, yes) he's the enemy, he's a threat, he knows him, and yet he's willing to be civil if Voldemort cooperates.
> 
> He had some half-hearted desires for revenge for quite some time, but the guy is too kind for his own good. So instead of being satisfied that young Voldemort is panicking over his own death, he feels guilty and compelled to comfort his emotionally shaken arch-nemesis. Goddammit, Harry.


	3. Calling in the cavalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and his friends come up with a plan. Voldemort is afraid.

Harry found his two best friends stumbling out of the fireplace at almost the same time. That pretty much confirmed in Harry’s mind that Hermione had gone at the ministry: otherwise, she would have advised that they take turns flooing instead of rushing it like Ron would have.

“Harry! What-“

“Is this about V-Voldemort? But we saw his body! Did he have another horcrux? I was so sure that-“

“Guys, stop! Calm down!” Harry interrupted his friends, his hands raising in an appeasing manner. “It’s under control, mostly. Gin, Al and I found him at the cemetery, staring at his grave. He looks _young_. As in, younger than us, maybe. I think he time-travelled, he had no idea who we were.”

“You want us to _calm down_ -?”

“Ronald, _calm down_.” Hermione’s tone left no room for discussion.

“…I’m calm,” Ron grumbled, and Harry was reminded of their teenage years. It helped him relax a little in such a bizarre situation.

“Harry, are you sure about that? Time-travel at such distances sounds farfetched, couldn’t it be a case of amnesia? This is… are you sure it’s _him_?”

“I’m sure, ‘Mione. Maybe you guys should see for yourselves.”

Hermione’s gaze was incredulous, bewildered. “Wait, is he… is he _here_?”

“Yes. In the guest room.”

The redhead snorted. “The one with the expansion charm? Sort of poetic, actually.” Then he paused, and frowned. “Wait… you mean he’s here. You-Know-Who is actually inside your house right now. Mate… this could be the perfect opportunity to hand him to the Ministry! He never got to pay for his crimes, did he? The man just took a Killing Curse to the chest and that was it. No trial, no Azkaban, nothing.”

“I’m not sure how well that would go, Ron…” Harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.

His best mate began to stride towards the narrow cupboard door at the end of the corridor, speaking loudly all the while. “Are you seriously telling me that you’re going to let _You-Know-Who_ walk out of this house on his merry way? Mate, the man who killed your parents, my uncles, my _brother_ , Moody, Tonks, Lupin…! He even killed _Snape._ ” He opened the door. “I won't sit here with my arms crossed while- _Ginny?_ ”

“Shhhhh!” The other redhead admonished, shooting her brother a death glare. “You’re going to wake him up.”

Lord Voldemort was, indeed, curled up in the bed. Before, when he was merely unconscious, his brow was furrowed as if he couldn't stop mulling his own death over his head even in sleep.

Now, however, there was something oddly vulnerable in his expression. Sleeping in Harry’s guest bed, dressed in innocuous-looking clothes – a white button-up shirt, a brown vest and dress trousers. Far too covering for summer – he looked fragile. If one did not take into account his bound arms and legs, it would seem domestic, in a way.

Even Ron noticed this. “He almost looks like a normal person,” he commented incredulously, before shaking his head and turning his attention back to more serious matters. “Harry, you didn't tell me my bloody _sister_ was alone with him!” He whispered harshly.

"I insisted to be the one to guard him, and I’m perfectly capable of defending myself. Honestly, we all fought him when we were _teenagers_. He’s powerful, yes, but fear will take you nowhere-“

“I don't fear him, Gin! But I’m definitely not okay with my little sister being alone with-“

“Shhhhh!” Ginny repeated. Ron sucked in a deep breath, but he still looked tense. “Your _little_ sister is thirty-four years old. Quit your fussing.”

Hermione had been muttering an incantation under her breath, and after a wave of her wand, Voldemort’s body glowed a little bit. She looked pensive. “He’s really asleep… he’d glow red if he was awake,” she explained.

Harry sighed. “He had a pretty bad panic attack. That sort of thing drains you, trust me on that.”

“I still can't wrap my head around it,” Ron muttered, shaking his head.

“What happened, Harry?” Hermione still looking at the Dark Lord’s young form, asleep in an awkward position. He looked not a year older than thirty.

"Ginny, Albus and I found him at the graveyard, staring at his headstone. He was freaking out badly, and passed out right there,” Harry explained. “And I really do think he’s from the past. You see…”

\-----

Voldemort woke up to the sound of voices and aching back pain. He felt restless and uncomfortable, but he did not dare move, lest he reveal his waking state: this was a unique opportunity to listen in.

“I’d feel much better about this if we knew the spell he used. I’ll do some research. Zabini might help me gain access in the Time Chamber at the Department of Mysteries, he’s an unspeakable and he respects me-“ A woman said. Another unfamiliar voice interrupted her.

"He respects _you_? That bloody bigot? What's next, Neville becoming the new Dark Lord and calling himself Baron Von Destruction?”

A quiet snicker. “You’d be surprised how the Ministry works. You two are used to hands-on action, but the office is a _jungle_. I bet Ginny gets what I mean, The Prophet is an all-out battlefield.”

A beat of silence, and a muttered “blimey… women are scary.”

"Hey, _you_ married her, not me.” That was Potter. He was still here, it seemed. (Wherever ‘here’ was. Perhaps it was his property.)

The same woman continued. “Anyway, I will do my best to figure this out. Remember, terri-“

“…terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time. I know, Hermione.” A pause, some shuffling. “You’re the best, thank you.”

“Of course she is,” the husband of this ‘Hermione’ said fondly. “I still can't believe You-Know-Who fell asleep.”

If it was of any consolation to this man, Voldemort couldn't believe it either.

“Yeah. You didn't put any Dreamless Sleep Potion in his water, did you, Harry?” This was Weasley, and he had to admit that she had a point. He still felt drained and sleepy.

“…I might have spiked his water a little, yes. But it wasn't Dreamless Sleep, he fell asleep on his own.”

Voldemort tensed, then forced himself to relax his muscles. Weasley voiced the question in his mind. “How did you do it? You took an oath, didn't you?”

“Well, I said that there was only water in the glass, didn’t I? It was true. I added the Calming Draught later.” Uncomfortable silence. “…what can I say? Anxiety is a bitch, and no one deserves to go through that sort of thing without a little Calming Draught. Not even Voldemort.”

“But- but he’s _You-Know-Who_! He’s the one who-“

“I know who he is and what he did very well, Ron. …and what he will do.” Potter took a deep breath, and his voice became sarcastic. “But what do you suggest? He’s tied up and wandless. A round of Crucio, perhaps? We rip into his mind and learn every single one of his secrets? Public humiliation, good old muggle torture? Tattoo ‘you suck sweaty troll balls’ on his chest? Because as far as I know, all that is part of _his_ agenda, not ours. So yes, I gave him Calming Draught. It was the humane thing to do.”

…had this been his modus operandi for the last decades? When had he fallen into such unsubtle tactics?

Silence. The other man sighed. “Dumbledore would know what to do,” the woman murmured.

“If Dumbledore ever taught me anything, it’s that no one is infallible,” said Potter. “Not him, not Voldemort, not us. We all screw up, and we don't know it until it's too late, but that’s why we have to try our best to do things right.”

So that meant Albus Dumbledore was dead. The glee this victory supposed felt strangely dull, as if it wasn't there at all.

Because he was dead, too.

“One of his mistakes was never telling no one what he was planning. And we won't make that mistake.”

“You want to tell the Order,” Weasley stated. Which Order?

“Yes. Not the DA, though. Just Neville, maybe, but not the rest of them.”

“The Order and Neville? Mate… this will take some explaining. I bet most of them will just want to barge into your home and have their revenge, morals be damned. Especially mum, she’s still grieving Fred, you know? I mean, we all are, but You-Know-Who _did_ also kill Uncle Gideon and Uncle Fabian. I don't think she won't try to curse him, or at least fling a frying pan towards his skull- …okay. No mentions of throwing frying pans, sorry. But _he_ would deserve it.”

There was something off about that one last comment, but nobody clarified its meaning. It was something of common knowledge, then.

"Anyway..." Potter's voice was strained for a moment, but then he took a deep breath and started again. “Anyway, I think we should get the Order together this week, at the very least.”

“What about the binding?”

It took all of Voldemort’s will to not let his eyes snap open wide, in the sudden jolt of panic that coursed through his body.

“…that should be done as soon as possible,” the witch named Hermione said. “If Harry needs to leave the house, the magic suppressing wards might weaken. And well… we all saw him perform wandless magic during the war.”

“D’you reckon he can already do wandless magic? He’s what? Twenty-five? Thirty?”

“Ron, really?” Potter’s voice sounded unimpressed. “We’re talking about bloody _Voldemort_. As in, the same Voldemort that made a horcrux when he was sixteen. The bastard is _good_ , let’s give him that.”

“So what? You defeated a Dark Lord in a duel when you were two years younger than that. Not to mention-“

“I’m not taking any chances.”

“Ron…” Weasley began. “I know the kind of shite he can pull, and I bet the first thing he'd try would be to convince us that he doesn't know a thing about wandless magic. Act innocent and play the victim.”

A sigh. “If we’re doing it tonight, I’ll need your fireplace to call Bill, Harry. And we’d still need a healer… what about Malfoy’s mother? You are in good terms with her, right?”

Voldemort was listening idly at this point.

“Yes, but I doubt she’d want to help, Ron.”

They were going to bind his magic.

“But she and Malfoy helped you and Andromeda raise Teddy! And she saved your life that one time-“

The remnants of the Calming Draught in his system were doing very little to soothe his panic. He was the Dark Lord, he would not live as a squib!

“Yes, by lying to Voldemort to his _face_. I bet she doesn’t want to see him again in her life. After what he did to her son...”

“But she was a Death Eater!”

“You would be a Death Eater too if it meant Rose, Hugo and Hermione are going to be safe, Ron. She would have died if he found out-”

Desperate situations required desperate measures. If he couldn’t use his magic, then…

In a surprisingly Gryffindor move, Voldemort flung his body forwards. The momentum allowed him to leave the bed while standing upright, and he staggered to keep his balance without his arms. The door was half-open. He rushed towards it, and…

“ _Stupefy_!”

So predictable, and yet so efficient. He narrowly dodged the spell, and nuzzled the door open, heart pounding against his ribs.

When the next stunner – silent this time – hit him, his last thought was that he’d tried.

\-----

Lord Voldemort woke up for the third time since he had gotten himself in this mess, trapped in a terrible, terrible future that he still refused to call his own.

He looked around, blearily. Potter and Weasley were in the room, as well as two male redheads (Weasleys as well?) and a woman with bushy curls half-tamed in a tight bun. The window showed the setting sun, and by that fact the knew that something more powerful than a stunner had to be involved to make him sleep through the afternoon.

Gods, it had been almost two decades since he’d last felt so vulnerable. Voldemort hated it.

“He’s awake,” Weasley announced, her lips pressed firmly into a thin line.

“We can begin when Mrs. Malfoy comes back to monitor the binding,” the other woman said. He recognized her voice as the ‘Hermione’ he’d overheard speaking earlier.

"She won't like it,” Potter insisted. “And _he_ won't like it either. …how are you faring, Riddle?”

Fury sparked in his narrowed crimson eyes. “Just peachy. There’s nothing like a good, healthy dose of insolence in the evening, conveyed by a lot of strangers who want to turn me into a squib and a man who insists on calling me by _that name_.”

The people in the room turned to look at Potter, who merely shrugged. The door opened, and a middle-aged blonde woman walked in. Her skin hummed gently with latent magic slowing her aging, a common occurrence in wizards and witches. It was unclear whether she was in her forties or her fifties. She could be _sixty_ years old and no one would be the wiser.

Her aristocratic features froze when she realize he was awake, and through her pureblood mask it was easy to tell she was anxious. She, too, looked at Potter, as if for support.

“Narcissa,” he greeted, rubbing the back of his neck. It looked so uncharacteristic for a man who was surrounded by people who regarded him as a leader. “Ready when you are.”

The woman took a deep breath, steeled her will, and took a step towards the bed Voldemort was laying on. She clutched her wand to her chest, almost protectively, and then began muttering under her breath. He recognized the spell: it was to determine the power in his magical core. Well, she was in for a nasty surprise, then.

Wait… could this be…? His eyes widened in recognition, and the woman stiffened.

"Narcissa... of course. I remember the last time I saw you, a mere toddler in Druella’s arms. How proud Cygnus was of his youngest… you were blonde like the late Rosiers. You would do great things, he said. He broke the Black name tradition for you… young Narcissa Black.”

She looked beyond uncomfortable. Her lips twitched. “M-my Lord,” she mumbled, as if unsure that he should even be addressed this way. “I am Lady Malfoy, now.”

“Yes. Abraxas’ daughter in law, I assume?” His smile was deceptively charming, but his eyes told a different story altogether. “How _disappointing_ that you would turn your back on me. I have heard things, Narcissa. And here you are, assisting the enemy. What do you have to say for yourself, for your honour?”

“As if you’re one to speak about _honour_ , Riddle. Leave her alone,” Potter intervened.

Voldemort was seething. “Stop calling me that.”

“It’s your name, though.” Damn this man and his arched eyebrow. Damn his cheek and his intentions. What he’d give to get rid of this ward and… no, scratch that. He would even settle for something as muggle as a punch in the face, were his arms untied.

"Not anymore," he muttered darkly. All of Narcissa’s pretenses at a poker face crumbled at his murderous look: so she recognized his expressions and their consequences. Interesting.

As she resumed her spellwork, Potter crossed his arms.

“I don't see what’s wrong with that name. It’s a Lord’s name, did you know that? Your grandfather was a Lord. Until you killed him, that is.” Voldemort saw red. How did this man know about that? How did he know anything?! His teeth were grit so hard he thought they’d break. “So really, if you hate your father’s family so much, I wouldn't use the title you inherited from them.”

In a display of Gryffindor foolishness, the younger red headed male muttered under his breath. “I still think Baron Von Destruction is a better Dark Lord name. Gets the point across.” He was the ‘Ron’ from earlier.

 **::Silence!::** Voldemort bellowed in Parseltongue, his composure slipping for a moment and letting his rage show. He took a deep breath, grit his teeth again, and forced his voice to lower. He continued in English. “…silence. Enough of this travesty.”

Everyone froze. The woman in a bun looked at Potter, this time in a questioning way. “Harry?” He merely nodded, and she accepted the non-verbal answer. What was that about?

Narcissa broke the silence, with the same name. "Harry. There is a problem."

"...what?"

Her voice was shaky. “His… his magical core. It is enormous. And very, very dense. I- I have never seen anything like this.”

“Well, he is Voldemort, after all: can't say I'm surprised. But what does exactly mean in this situation?”

“To force that sheer amount of magic back inside his core and keep it repressed… it will be painful. Very painful. The binding would be unstable for the first days. I would have to monitor his vitals closely… for at least a week.” The blonde’s lips trembled as she spoke.

Everything became a blur after that. Vaguely, he registered the shock they felt at seeing genuine fear in his eyes. He did not pay it any mind.

His magic was everything, it had been everything he had during all his childhood years. It had been his only comfort, his only strength. His power. They couldn't take that away from him, no no no no no-

“…Bill. If you could work your literal magic?”

"...what?"

“Sorry, muggle reference. …I thought it’d help lighten the mood.”

"Let's... let's do this."

A bright light filled the room, and Voldemort screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that if someone tells you to not call them by their birth name and you do it anyway, you are being shitty.
> 
> Harry does it on purpose, because that someone is the megalomaniacal, genocidal dictator that murdered about 70% of his family and loved ones. In the case you encounter a mass murderer whom you have a personal grudge against and they tell you to not refer to them by their birth name, you could probably get away with doing it and still being the lesser shitty person in the room. Or maybe you would end up dead, because pissing off a mass murderer is a very stupid thing to do.
> 
> So my conclusion is: don't call people by their birth name if they tell you not to. Maybe they will one day change their mind and be comfortable with you saying it, maybe they truly do not identify with it and never will. Maybe one day they will tell you to call them by another name, and stick to the other one. All of this is chill, and you should respect it.
> 
> This has been another PSA.


	4. Mr. Bubbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort makes a friend, unlikely as it may be. 
> 
> Alternative title: Netflix and no chill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I'd be one of those authors that leave a fic on hiatus for three years. You either die a hero or live long enough to become the villain lmaooo I'm garbage just kill me already
> 
> Anyway, friendly reminder that I wrote this before the Cursed Child was a thing, so I only had the original books to build upon. Consider this an AU when it comes to the new gen kids' personalities and such.

The following week passed surprisingly fast. He was in excruciating pain for a while, slipping in and out of consciousness. Narcissa Black – now Malfoy – was almost a constant presence in the room, as was Potter: it was shameful enough to be under his enemies’ mercy to get water, but on day three he had to deal with being released from his binds in order to shower. He was still dazed by the constricting pressure on his core, and the humiliation of his captivity.

Voldemort met members of this ‘Order’ Dumbledore had apparently created to fight him. The only one of them he recognized was Minerva McGonagall, a brilliant Hogwarts graduate whom had been the talk of the Ministry recently in his time. He knew that he’d traveled sixty years into the future, but her gray hair drove the point directly home.

If he could only break the binding, he’d perform the ritual to come back. His memories would help him change history, and they would never know what hit them. Still, the silver cuff on his left wrist would not budge or release its grip on his magic unless Harry Potter had an unlikely bout of insanity and decided to remove it.

Voldemort sat on the bed, looking at the wall in front of him. The plate of food on the nightstand was left untouched and cold, like the others before it. Potter was somewhere else, apparently having a meeting with yet another organization after a man with a stocky build convinced him to. “We are all loyal to you, Harry!” He’d proclaimed, loudly enough for him to hear. “This is like the Battle of Hogwarts all over again… you have to trust us, why do keep on thinking that we’ll all run around like headless chickens? The others can handle the truth.”

The people supposed to be guarding him were unfamiliar, and the house was quiet. The door opened, and he did not try to escape: he knew both that and the window were keyed against him.

A child. What was a child doing here?

"…hi.” His voice was uncertain, but his emerald eyes glittered with curiosity. “I’m Al, who are you, sir?” He closed the door soundlessly behind him, and nibbled on a biscuit from a plastic package he was holding.

His eyes were identical to Potter’s. Huh. “My name is not important,” he replied.

“Are you a dark wizard?” There was no accusation in his voice, just expectation. How curious.

“…yes.”

“My cousin Teddy is a dark wizard too. Dad’s Order friends are here, and they only fight light and dark wizards who do bad things. Did you?”

Voldemort pinched the bridge of his nose. Was this Potter’s child? “Are you supposed to be here?”

Al blinked at this, then looked left and right dramatically, as if searching for eavesdroppers. “Not really,” he confessed in a conspiratorial manner, cupping a hand next to his mouth. “I asked dad about you, and he said you were sick and needed rest. But staying in bed is really boring and it gets lonely, so I figured I could drop in and say hi! Do you want a biscuit, sir? They’re chocolate chip.”

Voldemort hesitated, his cramped stomach protesting loudly. The child was eating biscuits as well, so the chance that they were tampered with was slim, right? He hesitantly took the sweet offered to him, and took a small bite. Al’s smile was blinding.

  
“You ate it! You didn’t even look at the food over there, and I was getting worried. Are you worried about poison?” The kid rambled on. “One of dad’s Order friends was like you. Mad-Eye Moody. Mum told me about him, and he always said-“

“…’constant vigilance’?”

“How did you know?” The child exclaimed in awe.

“I knew Alastor Moody,” he said stiffly. He was a fellow Slytherin from school, who had become an auror. Obscenely good at it, he’d heard. The man used to eat from his very hand like all the others, until he became suspicious in their Seventh Year, ceased all contact, and decided to fight ‘misusers of magic’.

A thought assaulted him. “Why does everyone look at your father like he’s in charge?”

The child looked at him strangely. “Are you from abroad?” After facing Voldemort’s blank stare, he frowned. “Dad’s the Chosen One. He defeated that man, Voldemort, when he was a baby, and then he came back, and dad defeated him for good at the war. There was even a big flashy duel and everything. There’s memories of it everywhere, biggest thing since Grindelwald! My brother doesn’t like it because they didn’t curse each other into next week or shoot spells around, so according to him it wasn’t ‘awesome’. But I think it was.”

…Potter. It was Potter. He had deflected his own Killing Curse back at him. Probably led the war. He’d known the man was an enemy, and pretty high up in the ladder if he knew that much about him, but to think that his killer of all people was the one to find him…!

“Are you feeling sick again?”

“…a little,” he replied, detached. Yes, he was feeling sick. Sick to his stomach.

“Maybe I shouldn’t bother you…”

“No!” He hurried to say. “No… tell me more about it. About this duel, about the war.”

The child shrugged, and sat down next to him on the bed. Voldemort took a calming breath.

“I don’t know much,” he admitted. “I just know that the war was awful, and lots of people died. But Jamie showed me the memory of the duel, and dad was amazing! He showed up in the middle of the battle when everyone thought he was dead, and all the people stopped what they were doing and just looked at him. Then he started talking, but the memory was edited so I don’t really know what he was saying, but people who were there say that he was telling Voldemort all the mistakes he made. He told him why he’d just lost, and gave him the chance to say sorry and do things right. And Voldemort knew why he couldn’t kill dad, but he got mad and tried anyway, and then died. It was really clever.”

When Al finished, the Dark Lord was silent. He was mulling a million thoughts in his head, while simultaneously trying to keep himself calm. His jaw was tight.

That godforsaken auror had delivered a grand, condescending speech before tricking him into suicide. Of course he would add insult to injury – or in this case, murder.

“…do you want another biscuit?” He nodded absently, and the child pondered for a second before handing him the entire package.

There was silence after that. Voldemort’s gut settled, and he dared allow himself to enjoy the peace and the ridiculously tasty treats. Potter’s son was frowning, however – seemingly lost in thought.

Finally, he blurted out: “Is your name Riddle?”

He choked on a biscuit, and looked at the child through his coughing fit. A small hand patted his shoulder. “Who told you _that_?” He practically hissed.

“Dad mentioned it a couple times. I just guessed.”

Curse nosy children and their accurate hypotheses. Especially if they were Potter’s children. “…it’s my last name,” he grudgingly admitted. There was no point in lying about that fact, and not to a child who would most likely not understand. “I don’t like it.”

Al’s face fell. “But- but why not? It’s a funny name- and not in a bad way. I like it! It’s like Agent Cobra Bubbles, but less ridiculous. Is your name Cobra?”

“I… _what_?” Somehow, this startled a laugh out of the Dark Lord, and he told himself it was a coping mechanism to deal with the absurdity of the situation. It was a surprisingly fitting name. “…maybe. Who is that?”

“Oh, come on! Agent Bubbles! That man from Lilo and Stitch!” Al seemed enthusiastic about this, and he let out a frustrated huff when it was clear that he didn’t have a clue of what he was talking about. Those new reactions were surprising, considering the fact that until now, he’d looked like a mild-mannered child. “You know what, Mr. Riddle? Just sit here and wait, I’ll show you. You’ll see, it’s going to be great!”

And just like that, the boy left like a small tornado, leaving behind only a package of chocolate chip biscuits and the realization that a little child had called him ‘Mr. Riddle’ in a way so casual he hadn’t thought it possible.

 

\-----

 

The Potter kid came back, holding a small device and a bowl full of popcorn. A couple of blankets were hanging from his shoulder. Voldemort blinked in puzzlement. “What are you doing?”

“Setting the mood,” the child said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He sputtered at the implications the sentence could have.

“…what? What for?”

“For movie time, of course!” Al said with a bright smile, as he set the bowl and blankets on the bed and tinkered with the device. A muggle contraption, no doubt: it looked about the size of a notebook, and emitted a soft glow.

“Why?”

Al sat next to him, placing the blankets on both their laps as if they were long-time friends. The popcorn bowl was between them, and he tapped away at the thing on his hands. “Because you’re nice. And because I can tell that you’re bored in here.”

“What if I told you that I most likely don’t fit in your concept of ‘nice’?”

He actually paused at this, considering his words. “...do you want to hear something my dad says? It’s something the man I told you about before said, but dad made it better.” At Voldemort’s curious nod, he continued. “He always says ‘There is no good or evil, only people and the power to do both good things and bad things.’ People can choose to do one or the other. So really, anyone can choose to be nice.”

This bastardized version of his motto made a surprising amount of sense. He would apply it to manipulation, though. Essentially, it meant that: doing both ‘good’ and ‘bad’ things at one’s convenience to meet one’s goals.

Voldemort usually couldn't stand children, but he liked this one.

 

\-----

 

Voldemort did _not_ like this child.

He was having a hard time believing that Potter’s son hadn’t chosen this movie on purpose, as absurd as the notion was.

Forget Agent Bubbles. The parallels the two protagonists had with him were extremely infuriating. It felt like… like his existence was being compared to the mockery of a sob story, and he had to close his eyes to control his anger.

At some point during the climax of the animated movie, he had begun gripping his blanket and pulling it more tightly around his shoulders – how he’d ended up subconsciously imitating Al’s childish blanket cocoon was utterly beyond him – and now his hands trembled slightly.

Because the movie’s unlikely happy ending… that kind of thing never happened in real life.

(At least, not to him. Never had, never would.)

“Didn’t you like the movie? You look upset.” Al’s voice broke the silence, and his face looked thoughtful. “…do you need a hug?”

Voldemort looked startled, sitting perfectly still. His back was straight once more, but he didn’t let go of the blanket. His knuckles were white. “No.”

“I know how people look like when they need a hug, and I know you do,” the child answered, matter-of-factly. “Do you want it?”

Curse Potter’s child a hundred times over. “No.”

The brat’s defeated look almost made him elaborate on why he didn’t want a hug instead of leaving him just with the flat negative. Almost.

He was running his tongue along his teeth, feeling for an annoying corn kernel that had gotten stuck somewhere between his premolars, when the door opened and a very distressed Ginevra Weasley stormed in the room speaking loudly.

“…I swear, if he’s in here-“ The way her expression shifted from concern to anger in less than a millisecond should be recorded somewhere, Voldemort thought. “ _Albus Severus Potter_! What are you- do you know how _worried_ we were?! Did he do anything? What happened?!”

The child quickly placed his muggle device on the bed, and rose his hands in a placating manner. “Mum, it’s okay, calm down! I was curious and I wanted to know what all the fuss was about, so I flooed here.” Weasley was looking at them both with a severe expression. “And then I figured Mr. Riddle was feeling a little lonely here by himself, so I grabbed my iPad and we watched a movie.”

The redhead’s expression was blank with shock, her tone incredulous. “You watched a movie. You watched a movie with…” She struggled to continue, and looked uncomfortable when she finally spoke, as if she were testing the words out. “…with _Mr. Riddle_.”

“Yes. Lilo and Stitch, but I don’t think he liked it. Did you?” The question was addressed at him. Voldemort looked away and made a noncommittal noise that could be interpreted either as yes or no.

“Al…” Weasley’s voice was softer. “You can't do that. You don't know him.”

“I know, but… he likes Chips Ahoy! That’s a dead giveaway. You _can't_ not be nice if you like those biscuits. Science, mum.”

That did _not_ sound very scientific a method to determine someone’s moral standing, and his mother seemed to think the same. She sighed, and shook her head.

“Let’s go find dad,” she said, as she took a hold of the child’s hand. “Ten minutes ago he looked ready to scan all Britain from the air. And shove pictures of you at everyone’s faces demanding to say if they know something.”

"But that's silly. How can he talk to people from the air?”

“He can't. But he looked like he would try anyway. That’s how worried he was, you little menace!” Weasley scolded, tapping Al’s (Albus, apparently. He shuddered) nose. The child picked up the muggle machine, as she grabbed the empty bowl and one of the blankets.

She obviously decided against asking for the one currently wrapped around Voldemort.

“Neville?” She called out towards the door. “He’s here. Guess who decided it was time to find a movie partner…?”

“What’d I tell you?” The stocky man from before said, stopping near the doorway. “Al is a sneaky one like his father, aren't you?”

“Yes! I’ll find all the secret passages at Hogwarts all by myself! I won't ask dad like Jamie did,” the kid exclaimed proudly to this Neville man.

Weasley looked at him for a few beats, as if considering him. Voldemort returned her gaze, and she frowned in thought.

The chatter subsided as she led her son away from the room. “Goodbye, Mr. Riddle!” He heard, before the door closed.

This left him alone with the man. Feeling ridiculous with the blanket, he removed it from his person and folded it neatly. “…you’re Neville.”

“…yes. Neville Longbottom. And you’re V… Voldemort,” the man answered, squaring his shoulders. He did not miss how he’d stumbled over his chosen name, despite him being bold enough to say it.

"You don't look like a Dark Lord,” Voldemort pointed out conversationally.

It threw the man off. “…what?”

“That other man, that… Ron Weasley, was his name? He made a joke when he thought I was asleep,” he explained. “He pointed out that something was about as likely as you becoming the next Dark Lord and creating your own reign of terror. Which now I understand, is very unlikely.”

Instead of reacting the way he’d expected, Neville eyed him curiously, as if he was some sort of exotic animal in display. Why did everyone do that? He hissed the question through his teeth.

“You are acting… really oddly. I saw you at Hogwarts a couple of times; you liked to check how everything was faring every once in a while. …during the Dark occupation, I mean. You weren't as coherent as now.”

“How so?” Now his curiosity was piqued. Everyone behaved as if he were a wild animal under sedation, ever since he’d woken up at Potter’s house: cautious, ready for anything to go south at any given moment. It was infuriating.

"I saw you torture a second year, once. She had sneezed in your presence… Two minutes and eleven seconds under the Cruciatus Curse. I counted,” he said. There was a gleam of fury in his eyes, tightly contained. “We started sending students into hiding that night, convincing people to not attend classes or show up in the hallways. …I understand how upset Ginny must be at finding her son in the same room as you.”

His own scarlet eyes must show his anger as well, because the man swallowed. “I didn't do anything to that child,” he snarled. “He barged in here, started making guesses on my name, and showed me an obnoxious muggle film for children. And I indulged him: if Weasley cannot control her brood, she shouldn't pin the blame on others.”

“Harry is living proof of your reputation regarding children,” Neville snapped, and then calmed himself down. “See? That is why I’m confused. He’s fine, when you could have hurt him.”

"Oh, yes: I can see that happening, especially without my magic. I have indeed taken up the hobby of beating up children recently, the good old muggle way. It is a formidable way to spend the afternoon,” Voldemort drawled, sarcasm dripping from his voice like snake venom. The man did not react to it, however: he just looked at him intently, as if daring him to prove his own words wrong. “As if I didn't have any other matters to atte- …do not tell me. Did I actually do that?”

“I don't know. You should ask that to Lady Malfoy: you used her home as headquarters for years.” Neville’s expression was tense. “Lots of people would gladly see you dead if they knew you’re here. I’d be careful… Voldemort.”

“Is that a threat?”

"No. Just some advice," he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m tired of war. Everyone is.”

He could empathize with that sentiment, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In keeping with the tradition of having helpful tips after every chapter, here's a new PSA: the tiny Chips Ahoy taste MUCH better than their original size counterpart. Idk why, to be honest. They just do. Trust my word on this. Also, teach your kids about stranger danger, but if they're the vague and infinitely more honest version of fuckin' Dumbledore, they might not listen anyway.
> 
> I like to imagine Albus is basically Dumbledore and Tom's lovechild, which should probably be a creepy af concept? If you don't know what I mean yet, hopefully it'll be clearer in later chapters. Let's just say he tries to look dumber than he is.

**Author's Note:**

> Harry and Ginny's relationship is based off my parents'. If there's one thing they have ever taught me, is that it's very possible to have a healthy friendship and raise kids with someone after divorcing. My parents did eventually remarry three years ago, but Harry and Ginny will not. They still love and care about each other deeply, but just not in a romantic way anymore. And you know what? That's perfectly okay! Don't let anyone tell you that two people have to hate each other's guts in order to split up.
> 
> This has been my PSA.


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